Thomas Wolfe, page 272
“(God, what a gloomy Gus the fellow is!)”
“—but on the basis of this book, I should say there’s no danger of his running dry. He should have fifty books in him.”
“But—(Good Lord! What is the catch?)—but then you mean you don’t think it’s time for such a book as this in America yet?”
“No, I don’t mean that. I think it is time.”
“Why?”
“Because it has happened. It is always time when it happens.”
“But some of our best critics say it’s not time.”
“I know they do. However, they are wrong. It is simply not their time, that’s all.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, their time is critic’s time. The book is creator’s time. The two times are not the same.”
“You think, then, that the critics are behind the time?”
“They are behind creator’s time, yes.”
“Then they may not see this book as the work of genius which you say it is. Do you think they will?”
“I can’t say. Perhaps not. However, it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter! Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean that the thing is good, and cannot be destroyed. Therefore it doesn’t matter what anyone says.”
“Then—Good Lord, Hauser!—if what you say is true, we’ve made a great discovery!”
“I think you have. Yes.”
“But—but—is that all you have to say?”
“I think so, yes. What else is there to say?”
Baffled: “Nothing—only, I should think you would be excited about it!” Then, completely defeated and resigned: “Oh, all right! All right, Hauser! Thanks very much!”
The people at Rodney’s couldn’t understand it. They didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, they had given up trying, all except Fox Edwards—and Fox would never give up trying to understand anything. Fox still came by Hauser’s office—his little cell—and looked in on him. Fox’s old grey hat would be pushed back on his head, for he never took it off when he worked, and there would be a look of troubled wonder in his sea-pale eyes as he bent over and stooped and craned and stared at Hauser, as if he were regarding for the first time some fantastic monster from the marine jungles of the ocean. Then he would turn and walk away, hands hanging to his coat lapels, and in his eyes there would be a look of utter astonishment.
Fox couldn’t understand it yet. As for Hauser himself, he had no answers, nothing to tell them.
It was not until George Webber had become well acquainted with both men that he began to penetrate the mystery. Foxhall Edwards and Otto Hauser—to know them both, to see them working in the same office, each in his own way, was to understand them both as perhaps neither could have been understood completely by himself. Each man, by being what he was, revealed to George the secret springs of character which had made the two of them so much alike—and so utterly different.
There may have been a time when an intense and steady flame had been alive in the quiet depths of Otto Hauser’s spirit. But that was before he knew what it was like to be a great editor. Now he had seen it for himself, and he wanted none of it. For ten years he had watched Fox Edwards, and he well knew what was needed: the pure flame living in the midst of darkness; the constant, quiet, and relentless effort of the will to accomplish what the pure flame burned for, what the spirit knew; the unspoken agony of that constant effort as it fought to win through to its clear purpose and somehow to subdue the world’s blind and brutal force of ignorance, hostility, prejudice, and intolerance which were opposed to it—the fools of age, the fools of prudery, the fools of genteelness, fogyism, and nice-Nellyism, the fools of bigotry, Philistinism, jealousy, and envy, and, worst of all, the simple, utter, sheer damn fools of nature!
Oh, to burn so, so to be consumed, exhausted, spent by the passion of this constant flame! And for what? For what? And why? Because some obscure kid from Tennessee, some tenant farmer’s son from Georgia, or some country doctor’s boy in North Dakota—untitled, unpedigreed, unhallowed by fools’ standards—had been touched with genius, and so had striven to give a tongue to the high passion of his loneliness, to wrest from his locked spirit his soul’s language and a portion of the tongue of his unuttered brothers, to find a channel in the blind immensity of this harsh land for the pent tides of his creation, and to make, perhaps, in this howling wilderness of life some carving and some dwelling of his own—all this before the world’s fool-bigotry, fool-ignorance, fool-cowardice, fool-faddism, fool-mockery, fool-stylism, and fool-hatred for anyone who was not corrupted, beaten, and a fool had either quenched the hot, burning passion with ridicule, contempt, denial, and oblivion, or else corrupted the strong will with the pollutions of fool-success. It was for this that such as Fox must burn and suffer—to keep that flame of agony alive in the spirit of some inspired and stricken boy until the world of fools had taken it into their custody, and betrayed it!
Otto Hauser had seen it all.
And in the end what was the reward for such a one as Fox? To achieve the lonely and unhoped-for victories one by one, and to see the very fools who had denied them acclaim them as their own. To lapse again to search, to silence, and to waiting while fools greedily pocketed as their own the coin of one man’s spirit, proudly hailed as their discovery the treasure of another’s exploration, loudly celebrated their own vision as they took unto themselves the fulfillment of another’s prophecy. Ah, the heart must break at last—the heart of Fox, as well as the heart of genius, the lost boy; the frail, small heart of man must falter, stop at last from beating; but the heart of folly would beat on forever.
So Otto Hauser would have none of it. He would grow hot over nothing. He would try to see the truth for himself, and let it go at that.
This was Otto Hauser as George came to know him. In the confidence of friendship Otto held up a mirror to his own soul, affording a clear, unposed reflection of his quiet, unassuming, and baffling integrity; but in the same mirror he also revealed, without quite being aware of it, the stronger and more shining image of Fox Edwards.
George knew how fortunate he was to have as his editor a man like Fox. And as time went on, and his respect and admiration for the older man warmed to deep affection, he realized that Fox had become for him much more than editor and friend. Little by little it seemed to George that he had found in Fox the father he had lost and had long been looking for. And so it was that Fox became a second father to him—the father of his spirit.
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CHAPTER 3
THE MICROSCOPIC GENTLEMAN FROM JAPAN
In the old house where George lived that year Mr. Katamoto occupied the ground floor just below him, and in a little while they got to know each other very well. It might be said that their friendship began in mystification and went on to a state of security and staunch understanding.
Not that Mr. Katamoto ever forgave George when he erred. He was always instantly ready to inform him that he had taken a false step again (the word is used advisedly), but he was so infinitely patient, so unflaggingly hopeful of George’s improvement, so unfailingly good-natured and courteous, that no one could possibly have been angry or failed to try to mend his ways. What saved the situation was Katamoto’s gleeful, childlike sense of humor. He was one of those microscopic gentlemen from Japan, scarcely five feet tall, thin and very wiry in his build, and George’s barrel chest, broad shoulders, long, dangling arms, and large feet seemed to inspire his comic risibilities from the beginning. The first time they met, as they were just passing each other in the hall, Katamoto began to giggle when he saw George coming; and as they came abreast, the little man flashed a great expanse of gleaming teeth, wagged a finger roguishly, and said:
“Tramp-ling! Tramp-ling!”
For several days, whenever they passed each other in the hall, this same performance was repeated. George thought the words were very mysterious, and at first could not fathom their recondite meaning or understand why the sound of them was enough to set Katamoto off in a paroxysm of mirth. And yet when he would utter them and George would look at him in a surprised, inquiring kind of way, Katamoto would bend double with convulsive laughter and would stamp at the floor like a child with a tiny foot, shrieking hysterically: “Yis—yis—yis! You are tramp-ling!”—after which he would flee away.
George inferred that these mysterious references to “tramp-ling” which always set Katamoto off in such a fit of laughter had something to do with the bigness of his feet, for Katamoto would look at them quickly and slyly as he passed, and then giggle. However, a fuller explanation was soon provided. Katamoto came upstairs one afternoon and knocked at George’s door. When it was opened, he giggled and flashed his teeth and looked somewhat embarrassed. After a moment, with evident hesitancy, he grinned painfully and said:
“If you ple-e-eze, sir! Will you—have some tea—with me—yis?”
He spoke the words very slowly, with a deliberate formality, after which he flashed a quick, eager, and ingratiating smile.
George told him he would be glad to, and got his coat and started downstairs with him. Katamoto padded swiftly on ahead, his little feet shod in felt slippers that made no sound. Halfway down the stairs, as if the noise of George’s heavy tread had touched his funnybone again, Katamoto stopped quickly, turned and pointed at George’s feet, and giggled coyly: “Tramp-ling! You are tramp-ling!” Then he turned and fairly fled away down the stairs and down the hall, shrieking like a gleeful child. He waited at the door to usher his guest in, introduced him to the slender, agile little Japanese girl who seemed to stay there all the time, and finally brought George back into his studio and served him tea.
It was an amazing place. Katamoto had redecorated the fine old rooms and fitted them up according to the whims of his curious taste. The big back room was very crowded, intricate, and partitioned off into several small compartments with beautiful Japanese screens. He had also constructed a flight of stairs and a balcony that extended around three sides of the room, and on this balcony George could see a couch. The room was crowded with tiny chairs and tables, and there was an opulent-looking sofa and cushions. There were a great many small carved objects and bric-a-brac, and a strong smell of incense.
The center of the room, however, had been left entirely bare save for a big strip of spattered canvas and an enormous plaster figure. George gathered that he did a thriving business turning out sculptures for expensive speakeasies, or immense fifteen-foot statues of native politicians which were to decorate public squares in little towns, or in the state capitals of Arkansas, Nebraska, Iowa, and Wyoming. Where and how he had learned this curious profession George never found out, but he had mastered it with true Japanese fidelity, and so well that his products were apparently in greater demand than those of American sculptors. In spite of his small size and fragile build, the man was a dynamo of energy and could perform the labors of a Titan. God knows how he did it—where he found the strength.
George asked a question about the big plaster cast in the center of the room, and Katamoto took him over and showed it to him, remarking as he pointed to the creature’s huge feet:
“He is—like you! . . . He is tramp-ling! . . . Yis! . . . He is tramp-ling!”
Then he took George up the stairs onto the balcony, which George dutifully admired.
“Yis?—You like?” He smiled at George eagerly, a little doubtfully, then pointed at his couch and said: “I sleep here!” Then he pointed to the ceiling, which was so low that George had to stoop. “You sleep there?” said Katamoto eagerly.
George nodded.
Katamoto went on again with a quick smile, but with embarrassed hesitancy and a painful difficulty in his tone that had not been there before:
“I here,” he said, pointing, “you there—yis?”
He looked at George almost pleadingly, a little desperately—and suddenly George began to catch on.
“Oh! You mean I am right above you—” Katamoto nodded with instant relief—“and sometimes when I stay up late you hear me?”
“Yis! Yis!” He kept nodding his head vigorously. “Sometimes—” he smiled a little painfully—“sometimes—you will be tramp-ling!” He shook his finger at George with coy reproof and giggled.
“I’m awfully sorry,” George said. “Of course, I didn’t know you slept so near—so near the ceiling. When I work late I pace the floor. It’s a bad habit. I’ll do what I can to stop it.”
“Oh, no-o!” he cried, genuinely distressed. “I not want—how you say it?—change your life! . . . If you ple-e-ese, sir! Just little thing—not wear shoes at night!” He pointed at his own small felt-shod feet and smiled up at George hopefully. “You like slippers—yis?” And he smiled persuasively again.
After that, of course, George wore slippers. But sometimes he would forget, and the next morning Katamoto would be rapping at his door again. He was never angry, he was always patient and good-humored, he was always beautifully courteous—but he would always call George to account. “You were tramp-ling!” he would cry. “Last night—again—tramp-ling!” And George would tell him he was sorry and would try not to do it again, and Katamoto would go away giggling, pausing to turn and wag his finger roguishly and call out once more, “Tramp-ling!”—after which he would flee downstairs, shrieking with laughter.
They were good friends.
In the months that followed, again and again George would come in the house to find the hall below full of sweating, panting movers, over whom Katamoto, covered from head to foot with clots and lumps of plaster, would hover prayerfully and with a fearful, pleading grin lest they mar his work, twisting his small hands together convulsively, aiding the work along by slight shudders, quick darts of breathless terror, writhing and shrinking movements of the body, and saying all the while with an elaborate, strained, and beseeching courtesy:
“Now, if—you—gentleman—a little! . . . You . . . yis—yis—yis-s!” with a convulsive grin. “Oh-h-h! Yis—yis-s! If you ple-e-ese, sir! . . . If you would down—a little—yis-s!—yis-s!—yis-s!” he hissed softly with that prayerful and pleading grin.
And the movers would carry out of the house and stow into their van the enormous piecemeal fragments of some North Dakota Pericles, whose size was so great that one wondered how this dapper, fragile little man could possibly have fashioned such a leviathan.
Then the movers would depart, and for a space Mr. Katamoto would loaf and invite his soul. He would come out in the backyard with his girl, the slender, agile little Japanese—who looked as if she had some Italian blood in her as well—and for hours at a time they would play at handball. Mr. Katamoto would knock the ball up against the projecting brick wall of the house next door, and every time he scored a point he would scream with laughter, clapping his small hands together, bending over weakly and pressing his hand against his stomach, and staggering about with delight and merriment. Choking with laughter, he would cry out in a high, delirious voice as rapidly as he could:
“Yis, yis, yis! Yis, yis, yis! Yis, yis, yis!”
Then he would catch sight of George looking at him from the window, and this would set him off again, for he would wag his finger and fairly scream:
“You were tramp-ling! . . . Yis, yis, yis! . . . Last night—again tramp-ling!”
This would reduce him to such a paroxysm of mirth that he would stagger across the court and lean against the wall, all caved in, holding his narrow stomach and shrieking faintly.
It was now the full height of steaming summer, and one day early in August George came home to find the movers in the house again. This time it was obvious that a work of more than usual magnitude was in transit. Mr. Katamoto, spattered with plaster, was of course hovering about in the hall, grinning nervously and fluttering prayerfully around the husky truckmen. As George came in, two of the men were backing slowly down the hall, carrying between them an immense head, monstrously jowled and set in an expression of far-seeing statesmanship. A moment later three more men backed out of the studio, panting and cursing as they grunted painfully around the flowing fragment of a long frock coat and the vested splendor of a bulging belly. The first pair had now gone back in the studio, and when they came out again they were staggering beneath the trousered shank of a mighty leg and a booted Atlantean hoof, and as they passed, one of the other men, now returning for more of the statesman’s parts, pressed himself against the wall to let them by and said:
“Jesus! If the son-of-a-bitch stepped on you with that foot, he wouldn’t leave a grease spot, would he, Joe?”
The last piece of all was an immense fragment of the Solon’s arm and fist, with one huge forefinger pointed upward in an attitude of solemn objurgation and avowal.
That figure was Katamoto’s masterpiece; and George felt as he saw it pass that the enormous upraised finger was the summit of his art and the consummation of his life. Certainly it was the apple of his eye. George had never seen him before in such a state of extreme agitation. He fairly prayed above the sweating men. It was obvious that the coarse indelicacy of their touch made him shudder. The grin was frozen on his face in an expression of congealed terror. He writhed, he wriggled, he wrung his little hands, he crooned to them. And if anything had happened to that fat, pointed finger, George felt sure that he would have dropped dead on the spot.
At length, however, they got everything stowed away in their big van without mishap and drove off with their Ozymandias, leaving Mr. Katamoto, frail, haggard, and utterly exhausted, looking at the curb. He came back into the house and saw George standing there and smiled wanly at him.
“Tramp-ling,” he said feebly, and shook his finger, and for the first time there was no mirth or energy in him.
George had never seen him tired before. It had never occurred to him that he could get tired. The little man had always been so full of inexhaustible life. And now, somehow, George felt an unaccountable sadness to see him so weary and so strangely grey. Katamoto was silent for a moment, and then he lifted his face and said, almost tonelessly, yet with a shade of wistful eagerness:
